


Made Of Iron

by mirqueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Spiritual, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirqueen/pseuds/mirqueen
Summary: Albus Dumbledore wrapped his deputy headmistress into the embrace of his long arms with ten times more strength than that of Rubeus Hagrid; the renowned wizard's white beard pressed against the side of her face with unexpected softness as he turned to firmly kiss Minerva's temple.





	

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of _Harry Potter_. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., etc.

A/N: A short what-if story about Minerva and Albus. Just something I would have liked to see between these two dear friends after such a violent attack in OotP. I just love this kind of plot between Albus and Minerva, but I never seemed able to finish any stories about it. So here is my first. :)

> **Made Of Iron**

For the first Godforsaken time in a number of pain-shrouded days and nights (often spent counting the minutes until a wave of pain subsided to a dull ache), Minerva McGonagall could actually sit up in her sterile hospital bed, in her sterile hospital room, and see what happened around her without stretching and setting aflame a line of muscles from her jaw all the way down to her navel.

Two large, clear windows stood directly within the black-haired witch’s sight now. St. Mungo’s simple, green landscaping wasn’t much a view, of course, but after days of seeing nothing more than a white ceiling and multiple healers’ unreasonably cheerful or dour faces (depending on their outlook and the stage of her recovery), the change was beyond welcome.  
  
Minerva had yet to determine just how she had been privileged enough to gain such an above-standard room – a private room, in fact –  and one which actually offered a view other than white walls. This kind of privilege in St. Mungo’s usually incurred either a great deal of money or a great deal of influence. Having known few amenable people with either, the professor narrowed her options down to a very specific list of wizards and witches.

Regardless the time she passed in deducing such hypotheses, Minerva finally sighed at a total loss. Aside from ungraciously asking the staff who precisely had paid, begged, threatened, or forced for such amenities, the only other possibility was to ask the suspected individuals. And that particular possibility seemed even more ungracious than the former.

Wrenched from her pensive thoughts by a throat being cleared, Minerva turned on a dime to face the invader upon her concentration, only to come upon the same brown-haired nurse who had been in and out all morning. The young witch had been anxious and jumpy ever since she realized Minerva was sitting up, clearly intimidated by the elder witch’s forceful personality and constant frustration with the slow healing process.

The nerve-wracked young nurse finally spoke, sounding very well coached as she repeated, “Professor Dumbledore requests – if it is not too presumptuous – to come in and see how you are faring.”

Her entire brow rising in disbelieving comprehension, none too few amused reactions swimming through her quick mind, Minerva pursed her lips momentarily and considered her current physical condition very carefully. Glancing over her bedridden form with keen intensity, the professor finally decided upon her reply with a cautiously blank expression.

“Certainly,” the black haired witch requested simply, watching in amusement as the young witch scurried out into the hall.

Albus Dumbledore stepped through the door a few moments later, dressed (quite miraculously) in a simple set of indigo robes. Oh, there were stars imprinted along the collar and edges from what Minerva could see beneath his snowy beard, but otherwise the garment took the cake for simplicity. In an instant, the simple wardrobe set Minerva on her guard.

“I seem to remember you marching directly into the healing ward some years ago,” Minerva chose to comment a bit brusquely, back slightly stiff as she eyed her once-professor with one sleek black brow lifted in sarcastic emphasis.

“You were my reckless student then,” the headmaster responded quietly and lifted a brow of his own, the softer white line nonetheless sharp in its subtle scolding. “You are a grown, independent woman now, and as I am neither family nor spouse, I would not presume to rush in, protocols and manners forgotten, as I reassure myself of your welfare and sit by your bedside as you wake… May I?”

A gentle tip of his head towards the seat beside her indicated a desire to sit. Exhaling some of her exasperation at his formality and quiet distance, Minerva nodded once at the intended chair.

The wizard she had known for fifty odd years took his time settling into the chair, dusting off nonexistent particles from both the uncomfortable cushioning and his own richly colored robes. Wondering at the strangely aloof behavior, Minerva nonetheless relaxed into the pillows at her back with an atypically patient mood. She already had a feeling where this conversation might lead and becoming belligerent or hotheaded would do her no favors.

At last firmly arranged into his seat, Dumbledore began to hum what seemed an absent little ditty. Whatever it was, it sounded like a real tune, but one Minerva was unfamiliar with.

“How are the students?” she asked cautiously, absently brushing the blanket beneath her hand in tiny strokes.

“Well enough now,” the headmaster nodded his answer in her direction, altogether too blasé for Minerva’s liking. “Dolores Umbridge’s absence is a relief and the truth about Voldemort is public.”

Having said his simple piece, Dumbledore went back to humming that same tune, never once having looked his deputy in the eyes. After several minutes of the inane sound and deprecating distance, the deputy headmistress finally sighed resignedly, ignoring the pain in her chest.

“I may not know you as well as I might – at one point – have hoped to,” Minerva eased into a new conversation with a growing pit of restlessness and irritability buried beneath a veneer of placid calm. “However, I do know enough of your moods and personality to understand when you are about to lecture upon one’s failings and the consequences they have wrought to another person.”

Humming ceasing abruptly, Dumbledore brought his gaze up to hers with an ever-astonishing power of piercing blue.

His apparent patience seemingly at an end, the headmaster eventually replied in a brief, brusque tone rather unlike what most students ever heard from him, “Where was your wand?”

Expected though the question was, the anger with which it was spoken stung far more deeply than Minerva had anticipated. Stunned by the feeling of being stabbed by one’s close friend, the injured witch could find nothing to say, only able to turn away from frustrated summer eyes when the door to her room could be heard opening and closing.

The same nervous nurse entered the claustrophobic atmosphere with her typical hesitance, surprising Minerva with the tiny glare that passed to the headmaster. It was then that Minerva remembered where she had seen the nurse before, the young woman’s small hidden glare reminding the deputy headmistress of greenhouses and broken plant pots.

“Althea,” Minerva found her voice of a sudden, forced to clear it of hoarseness as the emotion still rolled through her. The young witch turned in surprise to look at the professor, as did the far subtler headmaster. “Althea Baret. Hufflepuff. Class of 1990.”

“Y-yes,” Althea confirmed, further shocked. “I didn’t think you’d know me, Professor. It’s been a long time.”

“Oh, I remember you now,” Minerva expanded with relief for the reprieve. “Professor Sprout was always very proud of your skill in herbology. Your mimbelus mimbeltonia still sits in all of our offices, in fact.”

“They’ve lasted this long?” the brown-haired witch asked in wonder, a little smile gracing her young face. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Except… Well, I’m afraid my own plant died last month,” Minerva continued to feed the discussion, uncertain why it held her focus this way. She was never a social creature to engage in trivial chit-chat on a whim of feeling.

“To be fair,” Althea hesitantly kept on, something in her eyes keener than before, “you’ve barely had time for it. Hogwarts has been so difficult this year, from what I heard. And of course you also have so many other duties as Deputy Headmistress. And dealing with… well, Madam Umbridge. I’ve heard she took a real grind after you when the headmaster left.”

“She and I are vastly different creatures, Miss Baret,” the transfiguration professor replied with great restraint, studiously avoiding Albus’ previous absence and his current presence in her room. As for the headmaster himself, Albus remained strangely silent, his commanding and notorious presence almost forgotten in the wake of the moment. Almost. “I hardly entertain the mockery of law and truth with which… certain… _people_ … have excused their own bigotry and ignorance.”

“You always had a way with words, Professor McGonagall,” Althea bit back a grin admirably. It was with great surprise Minerva found her own mouth twitching with amusement.

“Be that as it may,” Minerva remarked almost embarrassedly, a tinge of apricot staining her porcelain cheekbones. “I’m afraid I’ve distracted us from your original purpose in coming to my room.”

“Oh!” the brunette gasped in remembrance, “I’m so terribly sorry! I forgot him in the hallway.”

That was one trait of the young witch Minerva had neglected to remark on.

Althea Baret could be remarkably absentminded at times. When her focus held, she stood up reasonably well, but if she became distracted all was practically lost for that moment in time.

“Him?” Minerva inquired curiously. Not another visitor, she hoped. Albus’ visit was draining enough as it was.

“It’s Hagrid, Professor,” Althea answered simply.

Feeling a great deal of weight dragging her back down under the pressure of Albus’ accusatory question, Minerva grew very still.

“He has flowers,” Althea quickly added, a worried tilt to her mouth. “And a card, I think.”

Lips twitching unexpectedly again, Minerva considered maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad visit. Hagrid rarely held grudges, after all…

“Let him in,” the professor allowed with something like hope in her chest to mash alongside the pain.

“All right,” Althea perked up at the acceptance, hurrying back out to the hallway.

Albus opened his mouth, a soft intake of breath signaling an attempt to speak, but noise from the hall commanded both their attention before he could do so.

“Oh, Hagrid! Wait, _Hagrid_!” Althea’s voice could be heard calling down the corridor. Someone shushed the young witch firmly, but she ignored them to make one more call. “Hagrid, come back!”

Whatever happened next, it went unheard in the private room, but a few tense, quiet moments later brought Hagrid sidling awkwardly between the wall and the foot of Minerva’s bed.

“Hullo, P’fessor,” the half-giant greeted quietly, mumbling into his beard with hands clasped behind his back. He clearly hadn’t noticed Albus yet, black eyes cast to the floor as they were.

“Hello, Hagrid,” Minerva greeted just as gently, nerves rising in the tense air. “I’m… glad to see you. Ah… Are you well?”

That certainly got the large man’s attention, drawing shocked eyes up to stare at the witch in shock. “Me?  You’re askin’ about _me_?”

Confused, Minerva responded simply,” Of course.”

“I oughta be askin’ _you_ that, Professor McGonagall!” Hagrid explained, aghast at the very idea, his emotions finally bursting. “Defendin’ me against that woman and them ministry wizards… Takin’ four stunners to the chest because you stood up for me! I didn’t even know what happened to you until I got back today. I thought… I was afraid you were… _dead_.”

Hagrid’s glittering eyes filled with tears almost immediately, sniffling beginning to take hold of him. Comprehension flooding her mind now, Minerva could suddenly feel a burning sensation raging behind her eyes. Swallowing hard against the rising emotion, the professor cleared her throat and tried to speak, “I’m not, though…”

“Ruddy cowards!” Hagrid growled despite his tears. “That’s what they were. Cowards! Attackin’ a woman who didn’t even raise her wand to ‘em!”

“I _should_ have had my wand out,” Minerva practically whispered, gray-green eyes welling up with tears again as the guilt pressed in at last, her attempts at suppression all falling to dust in the wake of Albus’ harsh wondering and Hagrid’s emotional loyalty. “I should have known better.”

“Rubbish,” Hagrid pushed angrily. “You haven’t done any wrong. They attacked you because they knew you could stop ‘em with one spell! And they didn’t want to be stopped.”

Minerva tried to respond, but guilt, sadness, and deep gratitude kept her silent as Hogwarts’ warmhearted gamekeeper spoke.

“This is for you,” the large man said more loudly, removing hands from behind his back only to reveal a handmade card. The parchment had been artfully and colorfully decorated with a hand-drawn picture that spanned the entire front and back.

Opening the card wide to see better, Minerva could hardly understand Hagrid’s sudden artistic talent at first, but the style of drawing hit her with definite familiarity of a sudden.

“Hagrid…” she whispered in shock, staring at the image of a classroom full of Gryffindors in every year, all seated as though looking right at her, their faces full of worry and their eyes full of questions. Only students and (oddly enough) Sir Nicholas filled the room; not a staff member in sight. For a moment, Minerva frowned slightly at the absence, but as she turned the card to the inside, she realized precisely why there were no teachers present.

On the folded inner parchment had been written a straightforward message which expressed the purpose of the card and its beautifully-drawn picture.

_Gryffindor House is waiting for you. Please come back soon._

“Dean Thomas drew the front of it, Professor,” Hagrid told her proudly, smiling happily as he went on further, “Most of the students just wrote summat, but there are other smaller pictures inside from some.”

Indeed, most of her Gryffindors had signed a simple get well message somewhere on the card. Looking over the images inside with keener eyes, Minerva found herself smiling warmly at the House Cup on the bottom left, a roaring lion on the right top corner, ginger newts in a half-open tin to the left side… There was an excellent grade on an essay and a pin shown becoming needle. And in the middle of the page at the very bottom, she watched the Gryffindor Quidditch Team waving at her in front of the goal posts, the victory banner hanging beneath their broomsticks.

Pulling out an enormous handkerchief and blowing his nose obnoxiously, Hagrid added kindly, “We wouldn’t want you to go anywhere, Professor. Couldn’t think of Hogwarts without you there.”

Minerva couldn’t speak clearly through her own closed throat, but she croaked out, “Oh, Hagrid… I’m not going anywhere.”

Almost as astonishing as the heartwarming well wishes and hand-drawn pictures was the rather large bouquet accompanying the card. Consisting of purely native Scottish flowers – Heather, Sea Pink, Ladies’ Tresses, Buttercups, Scots Lovage, Pearlworts – the most surprising addition to the bouquet had to be the rare Royal Helleborine. The rich flower took center stage, its dark red color stunning amongst the gentler colors of the other plants. She couldn’t imagine how hard Hagrid had to have searched for that particular flower.

“I thought you’d like a bit of home while you’re stuck here,” Hagrid explained modestly.

Minerva closed her eyes against grief and appreciation in equal measure, card in her right hand and bouquet in her left hand.

She should have been there.

“Thank you, Hagr—” the deputy headmistress tried to say, but her tears refused to be silenced any longer. Gulping back a sob, Minerva covered her mouth with a trembling hand, as always ignoring pain she probably should not.

Hagrid didn’t freeze for even one small second before he reacted to the witch’s distress, sidling between bed and curtain to bend down and grasp her much smaller form in a surprisingly gentle hug. Those enormous arms engulfed Minerva, but she had never felt safer or more grateful than she did then. Allowing herself a quiet cry as Hagrid comforted her, Minerva realized just how much more deeply she had become attached to her students and colleagues that year.

“You just get better now, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid assured her warmly when she finally settled somewhat, turning to leave with a small nod in the headmaster’s direction, “Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

“Hagrid,” the white-haired wizard replied quietly, barely glancing in the gamekeeper’s direction before casting his eyes back to Minerva, who sat grasping in vain for a handkerchief that wasn’t there.

Still sniffling uncontrollably and disgusted with the way here weakness just kept tossing itself in front of Albus Dumbledore’s keen eyes, Minerva started when a pale blue handkerchief slid gently beneath her downcast face. The initials were unmistakable in the corner, a large indigo AD stitched into the fabric.

“Thank you,” Minerva murmured practically beneath her breath, accepting the handkerchief and dabbing at her damp eyes and tear-stained cheeks in spite of the fact they continued to become damp and tear-stained.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Dumbledore whispered almost beyond Minerva’s hearing, but before she could respond tartly to his frustrated mumbling, the man rose from his seat and graced her with the most startling gestures she had encountered all year long, let alone that afternoon.

Albus Dumbledore wrapped his deputy headmistress into the embrace of his long arms with ten times more strength than that of Rubeus Hagrid; the renowned wizard’s white beard pressed against the side of her face with unexpected softness as he turned to firmly kiss Minerva’s temple. Standing back from the black-haired witch, Dumbledore pressed one last kiss to her forehead and allowed his hands to remain clasped on slender shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” the headmaster murmured, locking a steady gaze with his deputy’s astonished features. “I’m not angry with _you_. I never have been… I was so terrified we had lost you, Minerva. Hagrid was right. Who _could_ think of Hogwarts without you there? I certainly could not. I was angry and there was nowhere to place it; I had no means of… of venting upon those fools who called themselves aurors. Not without pushing the Ministry to keep investing so intensively in the running of Hogwarts…. It was not fair of me to torment you so. You have lived through an abyss this year, and my leaving only placed a brighter, larger target on your back. Please forgive what I said and implied.”

For a moment, Minerva sat staring in absolute disbelief at the wizard she had known and worked with for fifty odd years.

Never, in all their acquaintance, even when comforting her after she learned of Dougal’s marriage, had Albus Dumbledore embraced Minerva or apologized so deeply and truly to her. And he had certainly never kissed her in any way such as he just had… Like a dear, dear friend.

“Albus,” the transfiguration professor spoke, beginning but unable to continue. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know,” he replied tiredly, slipping back down into his seat with a heavy sigh. Minerva could hardly help noticing his hand grasping hers so surely. “You had already begun to blame yourself before I ever came here, hadn’t you? My words did nothing but make that worse.”

“I kept it pushed down so far that I… I couldn’t even think of it,” Minerva found herself explaining without warning, the words rushing forward now that her old confidante had returned to her. “It was like a horrible dream and I wanted so much for it not to be real.”

“I’m sorry,” Albus apologized again, closing his eyes as though in pain. Minerva squeezed his hand in forgiveness he would probably refuse to accept, but at least she offered.

In the silence, Minerva settled back against her pillows once more, continuing to hold Albus’ hand in comfort for both of them after the hellish year they had endured.

“Things will get so much worse now,” Minerva murmured in grief, “won’t they, Albus?”

“I fear for everyone in our world now,” Albus murmured in return, brows furrowed in concern. “The last time Voldemort became such a public menace, evil became more powerful and overwhelming than ever before.”

“And this time he’s more determined to win,” the witch shook her head in fear, wincing at the dark wizard’s name as memories of the first war passed through her mind.

“Yes, losing the first time around left him furious,” the headmaster sighed deep in his chest, wiping a hand over her eyes tiredly. For the first time in ages, he didn’t scold his deputy’s flinching. “Oh, my dear… what evils we shall see before the end, I dare not imagine.”

Shuddering at the very idea, Minerva closed her eyes to ward off the gruesome details of the first fight against You-Know-Who.

“For a brief time, let us leave this subject behind,” Albus drew himself together, breathing in with firmness and renewed strength Minerva wished she could wield as efficiently as her employer did. “I want you to get well. Not just surviving, but making a complete and healthy recovery. It would do my heart good to hear your brisk steps on my staircase once again.”

Half-laughing at the notion and instead wincing at the pain in her chest still, Minerva groaned in frustration and discomfort.

“I hope to do so in the short-term,” the professor replied quietly.

“You are made of iron,” Albus encouraged the transfiguration mistress with a soft power in his voice, reaching out to grasp her hand again.

Staring into the crystal blue eyes which had so often given her that kind of bolstering faith, the witch allowed a tiny thread of hope in her soul. Albus had not been the only person to do so, of course. Minerva found herself recalling the many ways Dougal, Elphinstone, and her father had offered such encouraging words throughout her life. They all had been snatched from her life like wisps of smoke.

Struck with a sense of clouded dread that would last the entire summer, Minerva prayed in the pit of her heart that God would not take this man from her, too.

* * *

 


End file.
